


already i'm so lonesome

by sarken



Category: Good Omens (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/pseuds/sarken
Summary: An extra night together at the end of the press tour.
Relationships: Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 13
Kudos: 66
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	already i'm so lonesome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HimereCalliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HimereCalliope/gifts).



> Title from John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane."

They end up in an overcrowded airport hotel in Boston, their shared flight just one of many diverted by inclement weather over New York. They've been separated from their luggage, likely never to see it again, but Michael's too grateful for solid ground and the promise of a bed to mind.

"I'm taking a shower," David says, and Michael mumbles an acknowledgement into the pillow before he falls straight to sleep.

It can't be that much later that he wakes up to David trying to pull the duvet out from under him, but he feels leaden, like he's been unconscious for a week. He tries to ask what David's doing, but only manages a grunt.

"D'you know what's on these disgusting things?" David says, nodding at the duvet. His wet hair sticks to his forehead. "Move your arse so I can get in bed."

Michael realises dimly that he hasn't even taken off his shoes. He heaves himself up--he's awake, so he might as well make a trip to the loo now to avoid waking up to make one later.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror as he washes his hands. He looks like hell: bags under his eyes, pillow creases in his skin. He smells like airplane and his mouth tastes stale.

He reaches for the tiny bottle of mouthwash on the sink, opens it and takes a swig. David must've had the same idea--the safety seal is gone.

He feels marginally better after that and decides to take a shower, for David's sake if not his own, but when he gets out, he realises there's no dressing gown hanging on the door--David has been wearing it, rather understandably, as neither of them has pyjamas or even clean clothes. The best Michael can do is fold up his kit, put his underwear back on, and pretend he doesn't feel ridiculous.

Fortunate he's an actor.

He needn't have worried, though: the room is dark and David's breathing says he's asleep.

Michael shuffles toward the bed, unfamiliar with the layout and unable to see a damned thing transitioning from the bright bathroom to the dark room. He doesn't trip or bang his shins, and eventually he finds the foot of the bed, his fingers brushing the damp terrycloth of the dressing gown as he rounds the corner.

He slips into bed, under the top sheet and the disgusting duvet, but he's wide awake, a bit of sleep and a shower having tricked his body into believing it morning. He shifts over to David's side, curling around him and trying to sync his breathing with David's, hoping the rhythm will lull him to sleep.

Christ, he's going to miss this.

He thinks it must be the heating, or perhaps the plumbing, making the gentle thud he hears behind the bed. But then he hears more. A moan, a voice, not enough to make out the details, but enough to know. Enough to catch his attention and make his cock thicken against David's charmingly flat arse.

He misses him already, as surely as if they'd landed and parted ways in New York.

He turns his face against David's neck and inhales, but the smell is all wrong, David's scent overwhelmed by the impersonal _clean_ of the hotel's shampoo and soap. Distant, as though nights like this are already just a memory, and Michael caresses the sharp curve of David's hip bone to remind himself this is still real, at least for a few more hours.

He brushes a fingertip over the dip of his navel, runs his hand up and down his chest, savouring the softness of his skin and the dusting of chest hair. He toys with it, tries to conjure up an image of it in his head, but when he thinks about David sprawled out beneath him, all he pictures are his eyes, wide and dark with arousal or crinkled and twinkling with mischief.

"S'nice," David mumbles in the here and now, and Michael jumps, then chuckles.

"I thought you were asleep." He kisses David's shoulder and rubs his beard against the freckled skin.

"Was," David says. "But all that thumping next door... not to mention your cock."

Lord, but hearing David say _cock_ always goes straight to his. "Would it be fair to mention yours?" he asks, trailing his hand down David's chest, over his stomach, and stopping when he reaches the waistband of David's underwear.

"Go on," David tells him. He wriggles a bit, makes himself comfortable with his arse pushed back into the cradle of Michael's hips.

Michael smiles and slides his hand over the front of David's briefs. He's just beginning to harden, and he makes a choked sound as Michael teases a finger along his length. Michael loves the sounds he makes, but he can't resist the opportunity to shush him, teasing, "Shh. Don't want the neighbours to hear."

"Sod the neighbours," David says, pushing into Michael's hand.

Michael takes mercy on him, tugging down his briefs to take him properly in hand. Of course, it's not entirely selfless of him--it allows him the chance to feel this one more time. To memorise the weight of him, the heat, the perfect way he fills his hand. He'll drag the memory out mortifyingly soon, wrapping his fingers around his own cock as he imagines David's in his hand.

He's well-practised at this now, knows just how firmly to grip him, exactly how quickly to stroke him, and that the shift from quiet pants to loud means he should tighten his fist and slow his strokes. And the gasps--he loves the gasps that come on every downstroke, telling him he's close.

"Almost," Michael says, and David thrusts into his hand, gritting out swear words before he comes, spilling all over his hand.

Michael doesn't waste any time shoving the same hand between their bodies to grab his own cock. It's so good, the slickness of his fingers, the knowledge that his palm carries David's warmth. He strokes himself, but not like he normally would--no, he touches himself exactly how David likes.

His orgasm ensures he won't forget.

He wipes his hand on the disgusting duvet before reaching for David, pulling him in close despite the wet spot between them. He doesn't complain.

"Thumping's stopped," David says, and Michael hums against his neck. He smells more like himself now, hairline dampened with sweat.

He nuzzles in closer and lets David's breathing lull him to sleep.


End file.
